


The Lad Is Gone

by Marshview



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Cross-Generation Relationship, Drama, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 06:34:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshview/pseuds/Marshview
Summary: After the Battle, Argus Filch carries his love and his grief in bitter silence.





	The Lad Is Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [He's Just a Little Fixer-Upper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528541) by [chickenlivesinpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin), and [The Conjugal State](https://archiveofourown.org/works/90240), by [Delphi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi). These two incredible stories made me forever ship Snilch. A further tip of the hat must go to the incomparable Delphi, maven of Rare Pairs, who’s written more wonderful Snilch stories than anyone else on AO3.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, M, and to the mods for handing us the metaphorical tissue box with this fest!

The Lad is gone. He’s gone and everything good has gone with him. Filch saw the body when they brought him in, the image seared into his psyche. He’ll see it every day for the rest of his sorry life; that splendid, pale flesh sullied, that sublime throat rent and gaping, that oh, so familiar form drenched in its own blood. 

Filch’s gorge rises, a soundless scream echoes in his mind. Voiceless he cries, _Oh, my Lad, my precious Lad!_ They’ve bled him out, that soulless Dark filth and his disgusting serpent. Filch takes two inadvertent steps forward, to clasp, to wail, to grieve, to kiss, before he remembers to obscure his reactions. He forces his expression impassive. 

Filch watches with shrouded eyes as others lay his Lad down in the Great Hall. He stands immobile, a silent witness, as they turn away to mourn others who’ve fallen. Their loud, public grief over their more popular departed loved ones grates on his flayed nerves. His Lad, his only beloved, lies lifeless, overlooked in a corner, unnoticed by most, yet glowing incandescent, and unforgettable behind the mask of Filch’s supposed indifference. He marshals every ounce of stoic strength he can muster to honour the Lad’s memory, determined to preserve his decorum, even as his heart shrivels and turns to ash. Professor Severus Snape’s postwar reputation will be complicated enough, nevermind inadvertently revealing their utterly private affair to all and sundry. No one has ever needed to know the hows and whys brilliant young Master Snape has warmed the soul and bed of this dirty old man, and no one shall ever learn of it now. Filch clutches that thought to himself, his one consolation; their passionate affair shall rest with him, forever a secret shared only by two. 

He clenches his eyes, blinks away an errant tear. By only one, now. 

He had known, deep down, they weren’t likely to emerge from hell unscathed. One or the other of them was predestined to perish in this godforsaken war, and given the circumstances, it was always the Lad who was in the most danger. But gods, oh, every possible god, why couldn’t it have been the other way about? What possible difference would his own extinguishment have made to anyone? He was a mere afterthought, a repressed grimace, a moment’s disdain to most everyone, and even the Lad might have risen easily above the loss of one Argus Filch. 

The poor boy was so bloody young—_my Lad, my beautiful Lad_—so brave, so selfless, with everything to gain in a world freed of the Dark Menace. The entire blessed wizarding world owed the Lad their undying gratitude for his timely interventions, his fierce loyalty and unswerving determination. Filch hoped fervently that the truth would out, and his Lad would be honoured as he deserved. He predicted that the Lad’s sacrifices—and his own, to be truthful—would go unlauded. Not that he, personally, cared a whit if anyone ever sussed out his own small contributions to the Side of Light, but his dear Lad had sacrificed everything to the cause. He wanted to scream at them all to beat their chests raw, and cry full-throated in pain for the shattering loss which at present they ignored. Filch would have gladly forfeited his own life for the Lad’s, in a heartbeat, without even a question. It was he, Filch, after all, who had loved the Lad most. It was he, Filch, whose core was in shreds, never again to be whole. 

Fifteen years. Fifteen tremendous, blissful, unexpected, and constantly surprising years. Filch’s entire life is contained in those brief annals, and now it is finished. There is nothing to be done for it. Nothing left, because the Lad is gone, and living and breathing will never again hold a thrill. There can be no more fragrant jasmine tea served with the Lad’s favourite lemon biscuits, no more careful scourgifying of stubborn potion odours from discarded robes. Filch’s work-roughened hands will never again be needed to caress and soothe weariness from slender, stooped shoulders. That razor intellect has been snuffed, those clever barbs and lightning-swift insights forever hushed. Brilliant, cynical, midnight-coal eyes are nevermore to be marveled upon as they soften and flare in an intimate, unguarded moment. No pale, graceful fingers to gently turn the pages of some worthy tome, no regal profile to cherish, limned in warm hearthlight. Sleek, cornsilk hair will no longer be found on the pillow next to his, glinting blueblack in the thin rays of a misty dawn. Lean, smooth limbs, unkissed by the sun, will not again tangle with his own, rangy and weathered, beneath shared sheets. Forever missing is the engorged ruddy flesh between, soft yet firm as any peach. Never again will he be allowed the privilege to worship, kiss, and fondle behind warded doors. Filch bites back his sobs, sublimating them into a harsh, desperate, choking cough. 

Nothing to be done, but still he exists, so Filch does as he always has done when there’s nothing else for it; he turns to his other great love, Hogwarts Castle itself. Perhaps he can find some small measure of solace and purpose within these broken walls, where he has always found it before, cloaked in the simple, repetitive rituals of cleaning and mending. Filch picks up a broom, and though the tool is woefully inadequate for the job, he sweeps with brusque, heavy strokes, forcing bits of rubble into a pile, beginning to clear the ruined foyer in front of the Great Hall doors. Alone, unloved, unseen, unappreciated. 

This time, it is for always.


End file.
